


The Great Break Through

by BeyondStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Mental Illness, Slow Burn, bits of other ships that don't sail, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondStarlight/pseuds/BeyondStarlight
Summary: Severus waits for the moment in his life where everything will change for the best. Death and Fate have a good laugh with him. Once his hopes and his will to live are disposed of, Severus finds himself back within the familiar walls of Hogwarts. It's pitiful, really, but then again Dumbledore always had a soft spot for lost boys.





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not native English, and this story is not being beta-read. If you see any typos or mistakes, please let me know :)

**IMPORTANT:**

**THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN RE-UPLOADED.**

**If you already read this chapter, I recommend you to re-read it.**

**\--**

-

\--

Severus doesn’t know when he begins to foster the thought that adulthood will be his revelation. He should know better, really, but he is a teen, and teens are prone to all kinds of awful afflictions like acne and mood swings and hope. The problem is that hope never did a Snape any good.

But still, he is nineteen, and no one is going to change his mind. Mostly so because he keeps it to himself. The only people he dares to discuss his future with are those who see it the way he does. All those promises they purred to him are slowly coming true. He is too far gone, too deeply absorbed in his own ideals, to see what they are doing.

Adulthood, he believes, is this entirely different place where Everything will be Different. It is going to be his Great Break Through. He expects to walk out of Hogwarts and promptly flush those seven years down the toilet. Just like he did every September with the preceding summer. This time, he has friends, and they are all powerful or clever or pretty. Some of them even are all of the above. And this time, he belongs with them. He, Severus Snape, is going to become a real Death Eater. A real someone. He is going to be admired among his peers (or at least tolerated), and outside of them, he is going to be feared. Finally, Fate is guiding him down the better path.

But then again, Severus once expected Hogwarts to be that Great Break Through.

Lucius tells him, one evening, about all the magic and wonder of the ritual. Of becoming a Death Eater. Mark and everything. Severus is but nineteen, and clings to every word. In the end, he will remember his taunting voice and glinting eyes most. Like they’re sharing a secret – an intimacy that he scarcely experiences. Lucius rest his warm hand on his shoulder and runs his thumb gently up and down. “It’s not frightening, no,” he purrs, “It doesn’t even hurt.”

If the promise of wealth and acceptance hadn’t already lured him in, the sheer beauty of the Dark Arts would have. Severus fawns over the mark, is impatient to have his own. He researches the magic that crawls through it, soaks up tome after tome about ancient gods and blood rituals.

All his life, Severus has only known one god. He was a nameless god, with no particular face, and no particular voice, but he had a smell – the smell of incense and old wood. He had a sound – the sound of whispers and voices echoing long after the songs have been sung. And he had a place – the frail little church around which all of Cokeworth was built. He believed in this god, as a young boy, because every young boy wants to please his dad. Then he figured out that religion was really just an abstract matter – a set of rules imposed by no one and everyone at the same time. And god was a lie anyway, or so his mother would tell him later.

And now there is another god he bows for.

The altar is grand, but not as grand as a church. It’s nested in the hollow of a rock, and lighted only by heatless torches. Severus runs his fingertips over the walls of the cave. Through the wet, blackened stone he can feel the incessant buzz of magic.

Apophis is his name. This god has a statue that looks Severus in the eye, and for a moment, Severus thinks the stone is breathing. There is a snake coiled around him, and Severus knows, though he does not know how he knows, that the snake and the man are one and the same entity. They seem familiar, but the thought leaves him before he can pay it any heed.

They all gather around him, in a perfect circle. Only Lucius steps forward, and hands him a vail. He knows that days ago, he would have done anything for him. Now, he is not so sure. It doesn’t matter either way, because by now he doesn’t have a choice. The liquid is gooey and leaves a slimy aftertaste of spices in his mouth. The kind of spices that leave you a little breathless. He does as he is told to, and tries to ignore how stiff and clumsy his fingers suddenly are. Soon, everything becomes quiet. The cave grows warmer, as though the chants melt together in one hot breath. The sensation of killing someone doesn’t stick with him. He remembers neither what the muggle looked like, nor how the blade in his hand sunk through skin and veins and tissue. What he does remember, is the warm, pulsing blood that ran down his hands. The blood spills and spills and spills. And he just stares at his red hands. Blankly. Nothing.

The blood catches fire, and the fire follows the patterns and symbols drawn on the floor. The world around him seems to shift, and suddenly he feels a deep, primal fear in his chest. An understanding that something is deeply wrong. Something he cannot undo. The feeling wriggles its way through his chest, curling around his organs like a nasty parasite.

Apophis accepts his sacrifice. The statue comes to life – or so he thinks – and takes his arm. Its lips are hard and hot, pressing into his skin until he can feel it gnashing against his bones and humming through the rest of his body. For a moment, he is afraid. He fears that this god can sense the void that fills his head like cotton. Apophis hisses and spits and blows his black fire into Severus’ veins. But that’s just dark magic. It’s all anger and fear. Nothing more, nothing less. And Severus has always been all anger and fear. Maybe that’s why this god houses so easily in his skin.

The snake uncoils and swallows the muggle whole. Later, he is not sure whether that really happened. Whether any of it really happened. He doesn’t dwell on it.

\--

Afterwards, he never brings up the whole ordeal. Not even in his own thoughts. It just slips out of his mind. Flushed away, like those seven years of Hogwarts. Away. Or at least shoved somewhere he can’t reach. Not for now. Not until it infests and starts crawling out on its own.

The only thing he keeps thinking of is how easy it is to take a life. He expected a part of him to shatter or break. But it didn’t. Nothing changed. Maybe he really has no soul. Maybe he has no heart. For some reason these thoughts come in Lily’s voice.

He thinks he is becoming a hollow man. Or maybe he always was. He is just hands that brew and guts that twist and a head that shouldn’t be allowed to make choices. Now, his Lord makes his choices for him. He likes it that way. He likes to think that he gave that responsibility away, and that his Lord knows how to make the best out of him. Lily disagrees. Sometimes his mother disagrees too. It’s them and it’ll always be them because Lily is a muggleborn and his mother chose a muggle man over her pureblood family. And he hates them for it. He hates that they made these choices. His Lord gives him this hate, raw and hot. Or maybe Apophis does.

Raw and hot, that’s how he feels. And his mother’s voice is cool and soothing. She speaks to him from the past, and suddenly the past is a nice place to be. At night, when he thinks he must have a fever, thoughts of the past drift in and out of his head. He masters Occlumency like no other, and he does it for her. So he can be with his mother again, with no Dark Lord peering through the gaps. And with Lily. Her voice is soft and kind and sometimes there’s laughter. He misses laughter. He misses her. He apologizes to her every night. And to his mother. He’s so sorry.

But during the day he isn’t sorry. During the day he does what he does best. He brews. Acids and liquid fire and the sweetest of poisons. One day he liquefies death, and it has the flavour of honey. They make silly jokes about feeding it to muggle children. He laughs. Bellatrix laughs louder. Lucius and Narcissa share that breathy, thin laugh you make when you really want to be somewhere else. They’re new parents, and new parents don’t think child cruelty is _that_ funny. Severus wonders what it would be like, to have love and family and money.

His Lord takes a liking to him. Severus has been good and loyal, no more than the others, but no less either. And he is the most pitiful of them all, because of his muggle father. It turns out that his Lord knows all about muggle father’s and silly witch mothers.

“They’re animals,” his Lord says. The two of them are standing on a balcony, at the Malfoy Manor, where everything is more beautiful. It’s one of those sweltering red summer evenings that lasts forever. “At least I didn’t have to grow up with them.” In the last light of the day, Severus thinks him handsome. Tints of gold soften his face and sweeten his brown eyes. Behind great magic and great words, there is something surprisingly human about him. “But well, they’re dead. Are yours still alive?”

Severus doesn’t like thinking about his parents. They’re still neatly pushed away in a corner of abandoned memories. Talking about them feels like talking about strangers. “I think my father has killed himself by now,” he says, because it sounds like the right thing to say. And then he adds, “I hope he did.”

“Suicide. That’s pathetic.” He chuckles as if he is reminded of something, and Severus has to look away. “But, of course, if they get rid of themselves, at least we won’t have to do that anymore.”

It’s said so casually. Almost like a joke. _Don’t dwell on it_ , Severus thinks, although he isn’t sure why he has to remind himself. He doesn’t respond; he just nods, and that satisfies his Lord. He doesn’t say that his dad would never do something as brutal as suicide. Dad just drinks. A lot. Drowns himself in alcohol. That kills too, but much slower. And it’s pathetic still, so it’s all the same anyway. He doesn’t think about his own attempted suicide. That too belongs to Times Flushed Away.

\--

Just past the end of summer, he finds himself alone with his Lord again. This time, he seems less handsome. Less human. The ever-setting sun has finally left them in the crisp autumn chill. His Lord is in a good mood. A great mood, actually. They walk into a large room. Severus has lost count of whose house they’re in. He can’t think straight. He inhales slowly, evenly, deeply.

“Severus, my friend.”

He has been very happy with Severus. The reason why Severus has gained such great esteem in his eyes happens to be the same reason why he hasn’t slept in three days. Dying hasn’t been on his mind so much since his sixth year in Hogwarts. He knows the Cokeworth train schedule by heart. It hasn’t changed in the past twenty years. Maybe they’ll put a little cross next to the one for his mother.

“Tell me, what did you want to talk about?”

“The prophecy.” His voice is surprisingly steady. His Lord smiles, not concealing his pride. But then Severus sighs. A minor inconvenience, that’s what it ought to sound like. “See, the prophecy states that the boy is the threat that has to be eliminated, yes?”

“You would know better than anyone, Severus.”

“I do,” he says. “But there is one small favour I wanted to ask.”

His Lord is watching him closely now, feigning a perfectly calm air. “A favour? Well then, talk.”

His mind has become that void again, almost the same way it did during the ceremony. It’s the feeling of Occlumency and it soothes him. Even if his Lord isn’t trying to read his mind. There is no place for fear now.

“I knew his mother.”

The Lord arches his eyebrows slowly. It takes mere seconds for him to put the pieces together. Although he scarcely knows the mother in question, he knows very well what the prophecy said about her. “Am I understanding correctly, that you want me to be merciful upon someone who defied me, not once, not twice, but trice?”

His voice is displeased, so gently displeased that Severus can feel Death peering greedily through the window. He doesn’t lower his eyes, doesn’t skip a beat and doesn’t hold his breath. He does what he does best, after brewing, and that is lying. Honesty, in his opinion, is the single drop of poison a glass of wine needs. “I fancied her, once.” He pauses, as if he is trying to share the idea with his Lord, “And I think that, if she has no husband and no child, maybe she’ll be less reluctant this time.”

His Lord laughs. An abrupt, cold sound. “I don’t like the women you fancy, Severus, but I like the way you think.”

Severus smirks. The way he thinks. He doesn’t think at all, lately. And right now, there is no Lily in his head either. If there was, he is certain she would not be keeping him from killing himself anymore. All those nights she was with him, but now he fears she will finally leave him in his memories too.

\--

There was one miscalculation that slipped through Severus’ fingers. The Dark Lord finds him again, Death pacing happily in his wake.

“Severus, Severus,” he greets him, in that sweet voice he uses when all mercy has left him. “Severus,” he says again, but this time Severus thinks it’s Death calling out to him. “I was not aware that this pretty girl, Lily, is a muggleborn.”

He fears for a moment his heart will stop right then and there. Give up. Quit. Just like that. But it doesn’t. It just keeps beating, and Severus is forced to keep going as well.

“She is,” he says. His mind is racing. The memory of her fills his head and his chest and his veins. “But she is different.”

“Different?” The Dark Lord sighs. “You sound like a teenage boy.”

“I was a teenage boy when I-” _fell in love with her,_ “When I wanted her.”

He is displeased. Disappointed. People have been killed over less, when their Lord was in a particularly bad mood, but all Severus wants to do is laugh. He wants to look over his Lord’s shoulder, straight into Death’s eyes, and laugh. It all doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Death, no death. It’s all lost. All lost.

“Fine, Severus, fine.” His Lord’s voice is cold. He becomes less and less human, and Severus wonders how he hadn’t seen it before. But that’s the magic of pretty faces, soft hair and glinting eyes. Of course he hadn’t seen anything.

“I thought you were stronger than this. I thought _you_ were different.” He eyes Severus as if he’s not sure what to do with him, like a cat eying a mouse that pretends to be dead. “Maybe I was the stupid one.”

He leaves with that. And Death, quite disappointed, leaves with him. _See you next time_ , Death says. Severus waits until their footsteps peter out, and silence resumes. And then he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs.

\--

Lily’s voice does not leave him. In his mind, she doesn’t know what he told his Lord. Or she pretends she doesn’t. Or she understands why he said what he said, but she never really understood him so deeply, so mostly she doesn’t know.

Sometimes he thinks about what the Dark Lord will do. He imagines him killing Potter. He wishes, truly and deeply, that the thought would excite him. Where is that wicked, vengeful and sadistic part of him when he needs it? Sweet revenge, that’s what it is. That’s what it ought to be. Instead, everything just feels awful. He doesn’t want anything to do with Potter anymore. He doesn’t want him dead or alive. Just out of his life. And then there’s the boy. Her son. Could Lily survive the murder of her child? Shivers run down Severus’ spine, because he knows what his Lord will do. He will be merciless. Kill the child in front of her. It will be his revenge on her. Trice defied. And he will ask her to bow to him, and she won’t. She will die. She will die.

Severus spends night upon night imagining one scenario after the other. And with every passing night, Lily becomes a little greater in his memory, a little purer and a little more perfect. Always standing up for what she believes, always fighting for what is right. And, when Severus is well on his way to unconsciousness, a halo of light encircles her head, and she becomes the meaning of goodness itself.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, again. His skin is sticky and his hands are shaking. The nightmare is forgotten but the fear lingers. Then he hears her voice, as he often does, clear and sharp over the sound of his racing heart.

She says, _You wouldn’t do that to me, Severus. You wouldn’t let him do that to me_.

And he always replies _, I would never_.

And then there remains a silence, in which he wonders whether she would forgive him, or whether he is truly going mad. Maybe he is taping together the memories of her voice into words she would never say. Then, her voice rings through the silence more vividly than ever.

_But you are doing it to me. To me, and to James, and to my son, and to all the others. You disgusting liar. You have not changed at all._

 

* * *

**Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this, it makes my day!**


	2. Chapter 2

**IMPORTANT:**

**CHAPTER 1 AND 2 HAVE BEEN** **RE-UPLOADED.**

**If you already read these chapters, I recommend you to re-read them.**

**\--**

-

\--

Dumbledore is taller than he remembers him, and greater. The war has done nothing to harden his features. He is still soft and calm and powerful as ever. In the night, outside, his face glows in the moonlight. He looks more alive, more human, than anyone Severus has talked with lately.

Severus is afraid, terrified, and he sinks to his knees. He knows his Lord gave him this fear, because he himself has nothing left to lose. If Dumbledore raised his wand now, he would embrace Death. But Dumbledore isn’t closely acquainted with Death, so it’s just the two of them.

It’s unfair, because Dumbledore knew. He knew all along what Severus was. What he would turn into. Under that hard gaze, the fear of his Master makes place for Severus’ own shame.

He still begs him. His hands are shaking, but he still bows and reaches for Dumbledore’s robes. _Please_ , his mind keeps shouting, _please save Lily_. Tears come and he lets them flow. He realises he hasn’t cried in a long time, and it feels so good to feel so awful. He bathes in the pain because it’s his own hurt and not _theirs_.

Dumbledore says “You disgust me,” and Severus savours the words. And it has to be true because Dumbledore always knows the truth.

He still begs him. “Anything.” He chokes out. His voice is croaky and hoarse and heavy. “I’ll do anything”. He knows he is ready to give anything, because he would do anything for Lily. It’s her voice that brought him here, or maybe it was Fate who took his hand and carried him to this place, but he thinks he’d like Lily better. “Anything,” he promises. Because if Lily can’t save him anymore, there is nothing left to save.

\--

And then Lily dies.

He stands again, surrounded by a perfect circle faceless men and women. Among them stands Fate, marvelling at its knack for creating patterns. Only this time there is no death – yet? – and no ancient ritual. But there is that primal fear again, and sticky blood between his fingers. Only this time it’s his own blood.

He’s not ashamed, just like he wasn’t ashamed in the circle of Death Eaters. He thinks he might never be ashamed again, after what he did. How can a man like him still feel shame? Or anything, really? Anything but the haze of physical pain that thrums steadily through his body. He flinches when hands wave, even if it’s not in his direction. The chair holds him tightly, too tightly. It senses the fear, that never left and never will. That deep sensation that something is wrong, something that can never be undone, which still curls tightly around his insides. That’s how he knows his Lord is not really gone.

The endless days that passed before his hearing are buzzing through his mind, cancelling out all the other thoughts. _I’ve hurt more_ , he tries to convince himself, _it’s been worse_ _than this_. His arm is exposed. His mark. They all stare. And every time the Dark Lord’s name is said a hiss crawls through his arms.

He did as Dumbledore told him. He didn’t say a word. Not to the aurors, not to the journalists, not to the disinterested lad that brought him a bowl of porridge once a day. He was only allowed to say one thing. That he belonged to Dumbledore.

And now Dumbledore does as he told him, and he protects him. They ask questions, and he is glad, so glad, when Dumbledore rises. His own lips are chapped and dry and his throat is tight. He can’t speak. Not a word. He can hardly think in words. Can’t understand the words around him at all. All he can do is fight that fright pulsing through his chest, and it is a fight he is losing. Strong and wild and thoughtless. He just wants to run. Turn around and run. He wants to go to nowhere, where he belongs, and never return.

Then Dumbledore turns to him. The whole world dulls around those two blue eyes. He thinks he will beg again but there’s nothing to beg for. And the _anything_ he would give has turned to nothing. He has nothing left. He wants to say _I’m sorry_ , but nothing good has ever come from him or his words, so he says nothing.

“To whom do you belong, Severus?”

The words drill through his head, resonating there until he makes sense of them. His mouth is dry and his tongue coated in blood. Something within him stirs. It’s his Master calling out to him, and to be called is good. His lips work around the softest answer that Courtroom Ten has ever heard.

“I’m yours.”

Then Dumbledore turns away and the world slips back into a blur of shouting and shaking fists. He doesn’t flinch anymore.

Nothing else of the trial stays with him. Only those hard, blue eyes.

\--

The next time he wakes up, he is somewhere else. For a long while, he just breathes, unable to comprehend that he still exists. He doesn’t remember anything, anything at all. His head is filled with cotton instead of thoughts. It’s good. He slips away into another dreamless sleep.

It takes a while before being awake becomes being aware. His mind sputters and falters, and very slowly, it starts picking up things again. The walls around him are high and familiar, the bed old and creaky. The hospital wing. For a moment he thinks he is fifteen again. Soon Lily will appear and tell him, in her most worried voice, that he’s the biggest moron she’s ever had the honour of befriending. But then Dumbledore appears and he says nothing at all. And Severus says nothing. Tiredness overtakes him, and something much deeper, much darker too. He gives in and lets it carry him back into the land of the unconscious.

He only realises his verdict days after it’s been spoken. _Not Azkaban_. The realization floats in and out of his head without stirring anything.

Dumbledore brings him tea. The rim burns his lips and he gulps down the scalding heat. The pain is oddly freeing. Then Dumbledore starts bringing him lukewarm tea. They sit there for long whiles in which nothing is said.

His wounds heal too quickly. In the morning his bruises feel numbed and cold underneath a drying layer of salve. He can move his fingers and toes, though his arms and legs remain too heavy. His ribs don’t clench around his chest so tightly anymore, chocking him a little with every breath. Dumbledore doesn’t say anything about it. Sometimes, when Severus slips into the limbo between being asleep and being awake, he can feel Dumbledore nearby. Soft hands and gentle touches.

One morning he wakes up to green drapes and chilled air. He doesn’t know where he is. His chest tightens, trapping his breath, and his head begins to spin. He stumbles out of the bed and drags books and vials along with him. That’s how Dumbledore finds him. On the floor, shaking, lying in a mess of potions and shards and books. Then the pain and the cold, hard floor make place for two warm arms. Severus sinks into the embrace and something within him snaps. He finally breathes, but the air is thin and broken. He sobs, chest heaving and shoulders shaking. The world is reduced to two arms, pressing him closer and swaying him gently. He cries and he howls and he makes all the pathetic noises he was always ashamed of, until everything becomes hoarse and muted.

\--

The next time he sees the green drapes, he recognises them. They’re his own. Slughorn’s, really. He thinks he’ll do away with them. Black keeps out the light better anyway. He lies in bed for a very long time after waking up. His blood has turned to lead and his flesh to stone. His mind keeps running in circles. He’s in the dungeons. In Hogwarts. He’s alive. Lily is dead. He doesn’t know why he’s alive but he knows why Lily is dead.

Having the private quarters to his disposal means having to use them. He moves slowly and carefully. First he thinks the heaviness in his limbs is because of the injuries still healing, then he blames the dreamless draught, but finally, he realises it’s just him. He slowly remembers that he hadn’t even been injured that badly. That all the previous nights were probably nothing more than his mind being unable to bear being alive.

The potions lab looks exactly the way he left it. There are no shortages, because he went through everything before leaving, last year. Funny, how he left everything here behind in a perfect state. And yet he doesn’t remember bidding any proper farewells to the staff. He starts brewing. Little things. All first-year potions. Just to keep his mind on counting and his hands on the ladle. He tries not to think about that honeyed poison, or how well it mixed with wine, how sweet it must taste. Lower the fire. Crush the lacewings. Stir for ten minutes. He tries not to think about a more violent death. Something acidic, that would burn right through his guts. He accidentally crushes the beetle eyes in his hand. Or perhaps he should just wander into the Forbidden Forest, some evening, and never return. Rest his head on Death’s lap and never come back to Hogwarts.

Dumbledore knocks at his door.

Severus moves stiffly. To the sitting room? No? They stand awkwardly. Without the pressure of a war, ignoring the gap between them is suddenly a lot harder. He doesn’t look up, but stares at the sticky, crushed beetle eyes between his fingers instead. There is no point in pretending; he knows why Dumbledore is here. No need for a spy when there is no one to spy on anymore. No need for a teacher who carries a Dark Mark. No need for a potioneer with shaky hands.

“Severus, will you continue teaching at Hogwarts?”

He swallows. His voice is rusty and it doesn’t sound quite as casual as he meant it to be. “If you want me to.”

Dumbledore smiles, with a kindness that is almost inappropriate. “Very well, then that’s settled.”

He doesn’t know how this happened. He was supposed to be fired. The realisation takes several long moments to sink in, as if his mind has become denser. Slowly, the picture comes together. It’s not a pretty one, either. Another year. And then another year. And then god knows how many more years of being stuck in a classroom with children who don’t give a damn about potions. He is nauseous with the thought.

But then again, maybe teaching for one more year wouldn’t be too bad.

“Let me teach Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“No.”

 _Damn it. God fucking damn it_. He can’t muster up the strength to argue, so he goes through a list of uncreative profanity for the entire pause in their conversation.

“Minerva will be coming back soon, and then Poppy and the others will also return, one by one.”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s still angry. Only later, once he’s back in bed and right after drowning his sleeping draught, he realises that maybe he should have asked whether they’ve heard about his trials.

His trials. He doesn’t understand why Dumbledore saved him, but he leaves those doubts in abandoned corners of his mind; something that’s rapidly becoming his best skill. There they’ll fester, and start leaking in due time, but due time is not now.

In the meanwhile, he waits. One of these days, the Headmaster will come back on his decision and tell him to pack his bags. Or just to leave, because what can he really take with him? But days pass, and they keep passing, and it’s just like when his heart kept beating when it should have stopped.

 

* * *

 

**If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a comment, it means a lot to me <3**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took much longer than anticipated..... my bad. please comment, it really makes my day :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is a regular updating schedule anyway, amirite guys?

**IMPORTANT:**

**CHAPTER 1 AND 2 HAVE BEEN**   **RE-UPLOADED.**

**If you already read those chapters, I recommend you to re-read them before reading this one.**

**\--**

-

\--

Albus stares in the mirror, and the mirror stares back. He was never afraid of growing old, but now that streaks of grey are streaming down his beard, he finds that the wish for eternal youth comes very naturally. He doesn’t feel old, though. Moreover, he feels younger than he ever felt. But _being_ young, that feels differently. It’s frightening and heavy and capricious. He thinks of Severus, so young, and carrying all the weight of the world, as the young tend to do.

He can’t say he feels sorry. The wounds are unnecessary jabs at an already broken man, but they will heal. What Severus did to himself, that might never. One chance. He gave the boy one chance, and he’s not planning to take that away from him. A chance to patch himself up. He knows that Severus despises teaching and that the students despise him, but he also knows that Severus has no one and nothing else left.

And Albus has a weakness for boys who have no one and nothing else left.

\--

In the afternoon, he has tea with Minerva. Her office is a deep, gentle red that he remembers well. As a Headmaster, he knows he is supposed to remain neutral, but he never lied to himself about his fondness for Gryffindor.

“Deep in thought?” Minerva catches him staring at her walls. He is very fond of her too. Her, her office, her House.

“Just a little nostalgia. I am growing old, after all.”

She arches her eyebrows. “You were born old, Albus.”

He smiles. All around him people tend to forget that he too was born just as flawed as everyone else – sometimes he thinks he needs to remember this more often as well. He used to be just as naïve and exposed.

Minerva straightens herself, licks her lips and inhales sharply. A serious matter, then. “I had a few questions, regarding Mr Snape.”

She was never one to leave a matter unattended, so he did not expect her to ignore this elephant in the room. Especially if said elephant was a morally questionable man who had been one step away from a death sentence.

“What do you want to know?”

She presses her lips into a thin line. Her face turns grave; older and sharper and far more worn than it ought to be. “How did his trials go?”

“He was declared innocent.”

Innocence. Always the first thing to get lost in war. Severus in particular never held much of it. Albus himself is just as lacking in innocence, but he was lucky enough to look the part, and clever enough to play it.

“He is not innocent.”

And he never was. Some children are born with cracks and dents and patches. Some children don’t learn to heal themselves. Albus feels his heart weigh heavily in his chest. “No, he is not.”

She narrows her eyes at him, reading his mind without any magic at all. “But I have this feeling that you don’t want to give him up that easily.”

He thinks of Severus, rotting away in the dungeons. “I don’t want him to die. I believe there is more to him than lost innocence. However, I’m afraid he is more stubborn than I thought.”

He likes giving people chances. Maybe it’s because he’s getting old, but he loves hope, and he loves sharing it, so be blames it on that. He doesn’t want to end a life so full of mistakes that all got to be regretted but never forgiven. He remembers holding Severus’ bony, cold hands in his, remembers the frightened look on his face and how he howled into his chest. Big hearts like his have space enough for lost boys like Severus.

“Well then,” she says. “What are we going to do about that?”

He smiles softly; he can’t help himself. She’s always eager to do the right thing, as soon as she figures out what that is. There’s no time to be idle with her. “I’m afraid Severus is not ready to accept help.”

“Not ready?” She gives him a pointed look. “I think Severus wouldn’t be Severus if he was ready to accept help.” Then she pauses, and her face softens. “I’ve known you for years, Albus, and I know your mere presence and intentions have a magic of their own. If you want to fix the boy, I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to do it.” Then she adds, with a little smile of her own, “You never seem to run out of hope.”

He chuckles. Her faith in him warms him, even if he thinks it a little too trusting. “Does that bother you, my dear?”

“Sometimes I think it should.” She shakes her head slowly. “Oh dear, we _are_ getting old.”

\--

Severus brews. That’s what he does. A Potions Master. That’s who he is. He holds onto these things and tries to overwrite the rules of his life once again. Headache potions and flu potions and contraception potions and concentration potions and what not. The process is an endless loop of stirring and boiling and cutting. It fits him just fine because he doesn’t have to think or feel or decide. Just work. He wonders if that’s how his father felt, working the same job for over forty years. Maybe the Snape’s were meant for thoughtless labour.

“Madam Pomfrey, the Invigoration Draughts are ready.”

That’s his sentence. Whenever he walks into the hospital wing, that sentence ready on his lips. Only the name of the potion he brings varies. And she has her own sentence too.

“Please, call me Poppy.”

He never does. Never acknowledges that he hears the words either. They’re not meant for him. Sometimes she talks to him but his answers tend to be monosyllabic. Sometimes she looks at him like she wants to say something more, and sometimes she does.

“It’s been quite busy already, hasn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

“At least the weather is lovely. Still, I’m glad Hogwarts always remains pleasantly cool inside. I suppose that’s the advantage of castles.”

He carefully places the potions in their designated drawers or on their designated shelves. They all have their label, their place to be, and their purpose. He’d like to have that too, but the thought passes him without eliciting any hopes or plans.

“It gets a little stifling to be here all day, especially when the sun is out, don’t you think? I spent most of summer on the continent, but the sooner I return to start preparations, the smoother the year starts. That’s probably true for most of us, but I always catch myself wanting to postpone my return. It’s not that I mind being here, but, you know what I mean?”

“Hmm.”

“Hogsmeade is great during the summer too, so at least there’s that. The students don’t know what they’re missing, but I suppose they have their full of it during the rest of the year. To be honest, I don’t really mind that Hogsmaede is a little more private for us right now. What do you think?”

“Quite so.”

“I’m going there in an hour, actually,” she pauses, and he stares at a potion that is a shade too light for his liking. “If you want to join me for lunch, we could go together.”

“No.” He thinks he is supposed to excuse himself, or at least make it sound like he is trying, but he isn’t. He really isn’t trying anymore, lately.

“Oh, okay, just thought I’d ask you.”

There’s something soft and disappointed about her voice that reminds him of the years he labelled “Flushed Down”, but he lets it pass before it can reach down too far into his mind. He leaves the hospital wing and heads for his potions lab. There is no one there. He sits on a chair and waits, because the potions he already started on need time to ripen, and the others aren’t ready to be made yet. Maybe he is like that too, stuck between waiting for one thing to end and another to start. He sits there for hours. No one comes and no lunch is had.

He drafts schemes for his classes and the schedules are discussed. Dumbledore invites him into his office. _It’s been a while_ , he thinks to himself. Maybe today is the day. He sits down across for the Headmaster. There is tea and silence between them. Dumbledore laces his fingers and waits. And so they wait.

Just Dumbledore and him.

Severus has patience. All the patience in the world. It’s new for him, but it doesn’t feel that way. Patience sounds too pretty a word for what he feels. Purposelessness. Yes, that feels better. He could have sat there all day, but most people tend to have life going on, so Dumbledore speaks.

“What are you waiting for, Severus?”

He’s still not used to being called by his first name. Not by them. He shrugs, because he has no answer. God, he really isn’t trying. If only he could be less obvious about it.

“Can you tell me something, Severus?”

It’s not a reprimand. It’s a question, so kind and careful that he almost flinches. His voice sounds rasp and unused when he answers. “Anything.”

His chest tightens, though he can’t say with what. Anything he can do, or say, he will. Anything. Even if Dumbledore will just tell him to leave. Then at least he can finally finish this. Put an end to what should have ended long ago.

There is an expression on Dumbledore’s face that he can’t read. As if he said something Dumbledore didn’t want him to say. But then it softens again, and he takes a small sip of his tea. “Then tell me how you feel.”

Severus stares at him for a long while. The words resonate through his head, again and again. They don’t make sense. “Excuse me?”

“How do you feel, Severus?”

_I don’t_ , he thinks. _I don’t feel at all_.

Dumbledore leans forward, his hands sliding over the desk towards Severus. He thinks that if he had his hands on the desk as well, Dumbledore might have held them. He’s glad they’re in his lap.

“Fine.”

Dumbledore straightens himself again. Severus feels absolutely see-through. “You don’t have to answer me, Severus, but if you do, I want to hear nothing but the truth.”

“It is the truth,” he says, too quickly and too obviously.

“Very well.” He crosses his arms, and Severus thinks he will feel Dumbledore pressing into his mind any moment. He doesn’t look away. _Let him see. He already knows anyway. What I really am. What I did_. But instead of magic prying open his mind, it’s only Dumbledore’s voice. “Then tell me who interrogated you.”

Severus sits very still. He is afraid his breath will give him away. The push of Legilimency still doesn’t come. “Excuse me?” he says again, lamely, dumbly. A part of him is already drifting back to those memories, to the days before his hearing. They might just have been a preview to what still awaits him. One word of Dumbledore is all it needs.

His voice becomes harder every time he speaks. “Which aurors interrogated you, on the days before your trials?”

“Ronan Fieldhopper. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Justice Parrey. Alastor Moody.”

“In that order?”

“In that order.”

It had started with Fieldhopper, but Shacklebolt had taken over the case too quickly for Severus to remember him. Just his name, and his fists. An old-school type of guy; that’s what they call the aurors who handle situations with their fists. He realises now that Shacklebolt is part of the order, so his intervention with Ronan might have been Dumbledore’s work. He doesn’t ask. He’s not the one who is supposed to ask questions.

“How was your interrogation with Kingsley.”

Since he isn’t entirely dull, he knows that Dumbledore has already heard exactly what happened during the interrogation. It’s the aurors against Severus, once again. He swallows.

“I don’t remember much.”

“You resisted the Veritaserum.”

“I’m an Occlumens for a reason.”

“You didn’t say a word.”

“I don’t answer to them.”

Dumbledore nods, slowly, although Severus doesn’t know at what. If he’s being tested, he already knows the outcome. It’s always Severus against the world, and it never turns in his favour.

“What about Justice Parrey?”

“Kingsley must have told you already.”

He feels defiant for saying it. Dumbledore doesn’t give away anything. “Kingsley told me she had a few moments alone with you.”

Severus remains quiet for a while. It’s true, he realises. He had been alone with her a few times. She was the auror with the sweet voice. She always stood behind him, so that he couldn’t see her, and she always just spoke to him. It was a technique, not so very old-school, but it had sent more shivers down his spine than any beating would have.

“She just asked questions.”

“Was she playing the good cop?”

“With Shacklebolt as the bad cop? Hardly.”

She was playing the worm that crawled into his ear and ate its way into his brain. A sweet voice she had, and a talent for carrying it deep into someone’s head. But for a voice so intense, her words have not stayed with him. The shivers they left did stay, and he barely manages to keep still.

“What did she ask?”

_How do you feel, Severus?_

That’s what she asked. Those were her exact words. He thinks he can hear her voice again, trickling into his ears. He shivers. God, she sounded like Lily. Or like his mother. The air in the office grows thin, or maybe it’s his chest growing tight _. How do you feel, Severus?_ He stares that the desk. Maybe they’re standing right behind him. The aurors. Or maybe it’s Lily right behind him. Or his mother. They all know. They all damn well know how he feels. They’re all heaving into his neck. His hands are shaking so he digs his nails into his knees. How does he feel? How does he _fucking_ _feel_?

“I don’t know,” he breathes. “I don’t fucking know.”

The damp scent of tea makes him nauseous. That’s what he feels. Nauseous. Or maybe he’s just sick. Sick and twisted and, and, _disgusting_.

The word rings through his body. He looks up at Dumbledore, who could have been laughing or weeping all the same, because all Severus can see is disgust. Severus feels disgusting.

 

* * *

**Sorry for my hell of an updating schedule. I had no idea it had been like 2 years ago since I updated this haha. I'm rewriting the whole thing and have the next few chapters somewhat ready so I should be better at updating this time around. Thank you so much for those who stuck around.**


	4. Chapter 4

The next days are no different from the previous ones. Dumbledore doesn’t sack him. The others stare at him when they think he doesn’t see it. He brews, mechanically. Soon the Blemish Blitzer will have ripened. No one asks him for lunch, and he stays in his quarters. He settles into the quiet nothingness.

It’s an early evening when he stumbles upon a forgotten cupboard. It contains two bottles of wine, half a bottle of firewhisky and a few other ones that Severus only associates with the peculiarities seen in the Hog’s Head. Leftovers from Professor Slughorn, he guesses. Maybe they weren’t good enough to be taken with. Maybe they were presents from people who weren’t important enough. He feels like he’s sneaking liquor out of Professor Slughorn’s cabinet, even though he found it on accident. Besides, it’s his now, he reminds himself. His hand inches towards the firewhisky. He never really drank. The appeal of it is lost on him. He would like to blame it on his father, but in the end, it comes down to self-knowledge. It’s all about being a light-weight, and a tightly suppressed clockwork of self-hatred and pettiness.

He sits down on the floor, holding two bottles in his hand as though he knows what he’s looking at. One bottle reads _Solander’s Sloe Gin_ , with a purplish shine and a silver stopper. He swirls the liquid in the bottle before prying it open. It smells strong and sharp and dry, like something that should have been poured down the drain a long ago. The bottle of firewhisky opens easily for him, the content sloshing as he shakes it lightly. This scent is familiar. He takes a swig, straight from the bottles. He swallows it immediately, like a sickly child taking its medicine. It burns his mouth and throat, living up to its name. Another swig then. He tips his head back and takes a mouthful. A coughing fit overtakes him. Black dots and stars dance before his eyes.

He puts it down, wiping away a stray tear. There’s a green bottle that shines alluringly, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. He used to have wine with the Malfoys. All he knows about wines is that white goes with fish and red goes with crystal glasses and velvet smiles and cold, delicate hands. He takes another swig of the firewhisky, and thinks of the face Lucius would make if he saw him now. Sitting on the floor, his buttocks cold and his hands shaking. He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob.

By the time he’s halfway through the bottle, the night has settled in. He breathes heavily, wondering whether he smells like his dad used to. He wonders if he looks like him too. Deflated and old, limbs too heavy to move and head to light to think.

There is a knock at his door. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. _They’re coming for me_. He holds his breath.

“Severus, are you there?” Dumbledore’s voice sounds older from behind the door. Muffled, when it should be clear and sharp. With a sluggish flick of his wrist, he unlocks his door.

Severus glares at him from where he sits, pretending he’s unwilling to get up rather than unable to. Dumbledore has the audacity to smile, and it looks all sorts of wrong. These are _his_ dungeons, and they are dark and glum and lonely, as they should be. They are _his_ , and they will be until the day they’ll drag him away. Dumbledore, with his summer blue robes and gentle expressions, doesn’t belong here.

“I see you’ve found what Horace kindly left behind.”

There’s no anger or disappointment in Dumbledore’s voice, and that only makes it worse. Severus huffs and shrugs, opens his mouth to say something, but there are no words he trusts himself with.

“I wanted to discuss the first of September with you, but perhaps we should arrange those matters another time.” He makes his way into Severus’ rooms as he speaks. When he stands before Severus, his voice softens a little. “Are you alright, Severus?”

Severus huffs. Dumbledore offers his hand, but they both know it will be ignored. Severus is pleased when he manages to get to his feet with a hint of his usual grace. But then, of course, the room begins to tilt, almost lazily, and though he wills it to stop he knows it’s he who is tilting towards the floor. He closes his eyes, and it takes a painfully slow moment for him to realise he is not falling anymore. Instead of a stone floor, two arms are holding him, and he can feel the tickle of Dumbledore’s beard against his face.

He blames the alcohol when he leans in against his chest. It’s soft and warm, and he is numb and cold from sitting on the floor. His fingers curl into the fabric of Dumbledore’s robes. He shouldn’t be doing this. There are too many reasons why. He shouldn’t feel good, for one. He is set on being miserable. And he really shouldn’t be resting in the headmaster’s arms. It’s going to make the wrong impression. And he shouldn’t enjoy that hand caressing his back so much. And the shiver that runs down his spine, following those steady fingers. Severus feels pleasantly light-headed, and warm in a way he hasn’t felt for a long while.

He tries, half-heartedly, to create some distance, flushing when he comes face-to-face with Dumbledore. The heat burns in his cheeks, and he stares at Dumbledore’s lips, telling himself whatever he feels is nothing more than embarrassment. The hand caressing his back has settled on his hip, and Dumbledore’s thumb rubs him gently but firmly. Severus swallows.

He has never kissed a man. Never really did much kissing at all. A breath ghosts over his lips. There’s no more than a finger’s width between them.

And then Dumbledore suddenly steps back, and the space between them grows very cold and very long.

“Goodnight, Severus.”

His voice sounds tight and a little breathy. His eyes are sharp and burning. Severus’ heart pounds in his chest, and his skin still burns where he was just touched.

The door closes with a soft click. Severus stands there, staring dumbly at the door, until the footsteps have made their hasty retreat. In his head, the memory of what just happened plays on repeat. Or what almost happened. What could have happened. _What certainly wouldn’t have happened, you delusional idiot, because the headmaster is not some Casanova and you are not into men. But you certainly are completely off your rocker_.

In the end, he manages to crawl into his bed. He remembers belatedly that he is still fully dressed, and kicks off his shoes clumsily. Despite lying quite comfortably underneath his heavy blanket, he feels wide awake. And, no matter how hard he tries to think of something else, his thoughts continue to wander where they really ought to stay away.

It felt too good to be touched. He had forgotten how nice that is. Did he ever really know? The hands caressing his back, what if they lingered? What if they went just a little lower? He imagines those steady hands on his hips, holding him, one of them moving teasingly slowly to his groin. Just the thought makes heat pool in his abdomen. The headmaster, holding him close, touching him through his robes. The decadency of it all. Severus presses the palm of his hand against his cock. If only he’d been touched there. If only those hands had travelled a little further than they had. He rubs himself slowly, remembering Dumbledore’s breathy voice, the way he said his name. _Severus_. A little involuntary sound escapes him. He pushes his hand into his pants. If only those were Dumbledore’s fingers, curling around his cock and stroking him impatiently. His gasps are muffled into his pillow, but in his mind it’s Dumbledores’ soft robes he leans into. With a violent shudder, he comes into his own hand.

\--

He wakes with a start, heart racing in his chest. The nightmare still lurks in the corners of his eyes, but the familiar green curtains bring him back to reality. It takes him only a few more seconds to notice that he is still fully clothed. And then another few to feel that uncomfortable wet feeling in his pants.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, _I got drunk and had a sloppy wank last night_.

There’s nothing graceful about it, the morning after. The headache is bothersome and the taste in his mouth foul. It was just another sad evening, albeit that he tried to cure with alcohol – or did he really just try to make it worse? Merlin knows he would. And then he ended it on a positive note, he supposed. One that disgusted him now, nonetheless.

And Dumbledore had been there, for a little while.

Oh.

_Oh._

God fucking damn it.

He’d been through this already. The problem was supposed to be solved back then. At sixteen, fuelled with the hormones of any average teenager, and the lovability of a blast-ended skrewt, he took this “route” before. He even took a vindictive pleasure in fucking with Sirius Black’s brother. But it was a phase. Nothing more than that. He just slept with a guy so that he wouldn’t be a virgin anymore. And then a few more times, just to be sure.

In the end, he likes girls just fine. Alright, maybe he doesn’t like them so much, but he does enjoy sex with girls – or really women, as he wasn’t that young himself anymore by then (god forbid someone call him a boy past his 18th birthday). There is something immensely satisfying about the softness of breasts, and a woman pinning you down.

And yet here he is. Jerking off to a man.

He is going mad. Absolutely, completely mad. And he can’t afford to go mad just yet. He needs a plan. His mind begins to knit together ideas while he strips himself from his dirty clothes. It’s been a while since he showered. The problem is that he can’t take short showers, and so, he ends up sitting in the bathtub, a hot stream of water hammering down his back, while he stares pensively before him. If only there was some way to keep him from becoming so desperate he’d sleep with a man.

\--

“Poppy, the Blemish Blitzer is ready.”

“Please, call me- oh.”

She takes the Blemish Blitzer and talks about first years and their acne. About students and their reliance on appearance. “Shallow”, she says, “But understandable.”

“Easy to say for someone who has nothing to worry about.”

He can’t flirt to save his life, but he can flatter people, and he supposes that flattery will have to do the trick. It feels wrong, but then again lies are just lies, and Poppy flashes him a bright, flushed smile, so maybe it’s not that wrong at all. If only he had a clue about how to respond to smiles.

The deal he made with himself was that he’d be nice, or at least somewhat nice, but nothing more. Just the thought of asking her out for lunch makes him nauseous. But he can manage being nice. A little. And if nice is enough, then he’ll take whatever she offers.

“I was thinking about going to Rosmerta’s tomorrow evening, if you want to join?”

It can’t be this easy, can it? He feels as though he’s walking into an obvious trap, too inexperienced to recognise his impending failure. But he can’t say no now, can he? Nice is the minimum he settled for, and nice means he can join her for a drink.

“Sure.”

His mouth twitches when he says it, as though his body tries to fight what he’s trying to say. Poppy doesn’t notice. She turns to look at him, the surprise clear in her large brown eyes. The first wave of regret hits Severus.

“You- I mean- yes? That’s lovely. I’ll see you at seven, then?”

He agrees, which leaves him with about thirty hours to regret this choice.

It begins innocently enough. It’s quite normal, after all, to be nervous. Not that it is a date, or anything like that. He just hasn’t socialised in, well, that depends heavily on what one considers socialising. Should he dress differently? Absolutely not. Should he shower? But he already showered in the morning. It’s not even as though he’s looking forward to seeing Poppy. He just wants to spend the night in a way that will remind him that men aren’t _that_ good. They’re a last resort for when times get desperate.

But what if Poppy wants more out of this? What if she thinks it’s an actual date? What if she wants more than just sex?

What if he’s being a shallow, sex-deprived asshole while she just wants a nice evening with a potential friend?

The thoughts race through his head as he paces impatiently through his room. His closet is opened, and his formal robes are on his bed. They’re too formal. He’d better stick with his regular robes. He stops abruptly, covers his face with his hands, and sighs deeply.

The rest of the night is spent in similar fashion. He shifts from one side to the other in his bed, or walks in circles in his room, or pushes his face into his pillow until he can’t breathe. He even lied down, desperate enough to try touching himself. Perhaps the mere thought of spending the night with Poppy could bring him some relief. His stomach was tight with nausea, however, and his cock remained flaccid and useless. By the time his eyelids begin to flutter, his alarm goes off, which makes him jump up, clutching his chest. His heart is racing and his head is ringing.

 _It’s not the end of the world_ , he tells himself. It’s five to seven, and he’s standing at the doors of the Hospital Wing. He checks the clock for the umpteenth time and stifles a yawn. Is it bad to be too early? Should he be fashionably late? _Shut up_ , he tells himself tiredly. If he can play nice with the Dark Lord, he surely can spend the evening with a woman. He wonders, again, if he should feel bad for merely wanting to sleep with her, but then again, he can’t imagine Poppy wanting anything more than that from him. He has no money, no charm, and a highly questionable reputation. She couldn’t possibly think of him as someone suitable for friendship. The only way she could see him was as a desperate young man who was trapped in a castle with no one to be with. An easy opportunity for sex. There’s nothing offensive about it either, even though it should be. Merlin knows he’d say yes to just about anyone who’d want to sleep with him.

Poppy’s voice chimes through the large room as she bids farewell to whomever was in her office. The sound of her heels echoes in his head as she approaches. Severus turned his head, feeling his neck pop unpleasantly as he does so. He freezes when he sees her. The messy bun she usually wears is gone, and her hair is shiny and curly. Her eyes gleam, and she has dimples and crow’s feet when she smiles, looking far too pretty and far too happy to be standing next to him. Behind her, he catches a glimpse of two familiar blue eyes, watching them curiously.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Severus._


	5. Chapter 5

The bar is awkwardly empty. Rosmerta is chatting too loudly over the floo. Their chairs creak unpleasantly with every move. It's been almost thirty minutes now, and Severus hasn’t said a full sentence yet. And yet, Poppy has entwined her finger in her hair so many times she’ll surely pull out the whole damnable lock by the end of the evening.

Poppy is pretty. She is cheerful and friendly and striking. She bites her lips between sentences and her bright eyes dance back and forth between him and everything else. Severus, on the other hand, looks at nigh everything but her.

She is slowly driving him mad. He has no idea what to do with all her shy smiles and her long-lashed glances. Half of the words she says go straight through him. It’s not a matter of whether or not he’ll say the wrong thing, it’s a matter of when. So, to be on the safe side, he sticks to monosyllabic answers and monotonous hums.

 “And then Minerva actually did it- she picked up a broom and replaced the Gryffindor Beater. Everyone went wild.”

“Truly?” he drawls, staring at his untouched butterbeer. He taps his nails against the glass. They are too long, but he can’t be bothered to cut them. They are cracked too, and dirt has gathered underneath them. Not what a potioneer’s hands ought to look like.

“Yes, she really did it. I was mending McMillan’s bones on the field while it happened, and I could barely keep my attention to it. I’ve never been too interested in sports, but it was fantastic.”

He doesn’t even like butterbeer. He doesn’t remember ordering it. No, wait, he does. Poppy had asked, in her enthusiastic but slightly shrill voice, for a butterbeer, and he had mindlessly muttered he would have one too. On the one hand, he strongly doubts a stronger alcohol would have done him any good, but on the other hand, even water is preferable to the sweetish piss that he is sloshing in his glass.

“Hufflepuff still won, I think, but they shared the price with Gryffindor. The atmosphere was amazing. You don’t get that a lot with sports. There’s usually too much rivalry.”

“I suppose.”

Fuck. He should be grateful. He should be giving her compliments. More than that. He should be telling her stories about himself. Not true stories, of course. Made-up stories that would make him sound like a nice or interesting person. Half-truths, if he could manage to find a decent enough memory.

“Did you ever join the Quidditch team?”

“No.”

Merlin, he doesn’t have to sound so bitter about it. He clears his throat and takes a sip of his butterbeer. The taste almost makes him wince, and he swallows it like a bitter medicine.

“Any other activities you did? I used to be in the choir.”

She is really giving him every opportunity. She shouldn’t. If it hasn’t become obvious what kind of unamiable person he is by now, she must be dull. Then again, he once knew another girl who stubbornly ignored his flaws. His ribs seem to tighten around his chest at the thought, and he feels as though he can scarcely breathe for a moment.

“I,” there is a tone of hesitation in his voice. He straightens himself, and makes up for his doubt by speaking almost haughtily. “I mostly practiced potions.”

“Oh,” she says, delicately. He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean. There’s a little pause, before she asks, “What sort of stuff did you do?”

Now, this question he can answer. A topic he can glue his mind to. There are plenty of experiments and challenges he tried and overcame throughout the years, potion-wise. A reasonable amount of those experiments were legal too. He supposes it wouldn’t hurt to pick one of the more impressive stories.

“I brew all sorts of potions. I successfully made Felix Felicis in my sixth year.”

He is still proud of that. Only a handful of potioneers every attempted and successfully created Felix Felicis. One can almost argue that a potioneer needs Felix Felicis to make Felix Felicis.

“That sounds impressive.”

“It _is_ impressive,” he says, with a little huff. “First of all, the ingredients are hard to come by. Only a teaspoon of Occamy eggshells is required, and yet it’s easily one of the hardest ingredients to acquire. Not only is the Occamy indigenous to very specific regions in India, but it’s also a choranaptyxic, making it almost impossible to capture. They’re terribly protective of their eggs. I heard they were threatened with going extinct because of the egg hunts.”

“Oh no, that would be a pity. They’re beautiful.”

“It would be a pity indeed,” Severus agrees, “No Occamy means no Felix Felicis, among other things.”

“Yes,” she says hesitantly, “But their eggs shouldn’t be hunted down either way, if it endangers them so much.”

Severus arches his eyebrows. “Then how are we supposed to make Felix Felicis? Chicken eggs?”

Her cheeks redden a little, and she gives him an indignant look. He could apologise, because he knows he isn’t exactly being polite, but he is right.

“Besides, Occamy eggs are mostly used in hair-products in the Far East, although they’ve seen a rise here too.”

“Okay.”

Oh, Severus is all too familiar with that tone. It’s one word that swallows up the entire rest of the sentence. _Okay, you’ve said enough, and I’m not going to argue with you, but can you please shut the fuck up_. He’s never been particularly good in handling that sort of okay.

“Your hair looks lovely, by the way,” he says coolly. “Sleekeazy's is famed for their Occamy egg formula.”

“Filius!”

Her overly cheerful tone breaks the tension of their conversation. Filius waves enthusiastically at them, and then, unfortunately, approaches their table. From the corner of his eyes, he watches Poppy’s face. Sheer relief. Ah, well, he didn’t truly expect for this evening to be pleasant, did he? Self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will, but he refuses to believe it would have been any better no matter how he behaved.

“Poppy! Severus!”

He seats themselves at their table. Poppy is once again beautiful and happy. Severus takes a sip of his drink, which he much regrets when the taste of stale sweetness fills his mouth. Filius seems a tad too jovial to Severus’ liking as well. He offers a polite smile.

“Evening, Filius,” he says smoothly. “We were just talking about Occamy eggs.”

Poppy tenses. Severus’ smile widens the slightest bit, before he hides it behind another foul sip.

“Oh, curious,” Filius remarks, although he doesn’t appear particularly interested. Fine, Severus thinks, as he listens to Poppy’s hasty diversion towards Rosmerta’s new robes. Perhaps he doesn’t need to ruin the entire evening.

The conversation runs more smoothly then, without Severus’ participation. It cycles through various incredibly interesting subjects, such as Honeydukes’ newest collection of crawling lollipops, some wizard named Tristan and his unruly owls, and the riddle on the back of the Daily Prophet. Severus quietly promises himself he’ll never ever set foot in Hogsmeade again.

“Why are you so quiet, Severus?” Filius says suddenly, his voice friendly but reeking of butterbeer.

Severus holds back a comment about how very interesting the topics have been, so far. Instead, he clears his throat to win him a moment. “I remembered that there are some potions I need to begin preparing for the beginning of the year soon. I’m just thinking of what I’ll need to pick up.”

“Holidays are never really school-free for teachers, are they?” he chuckles.

It still takes Severus a moment to remember that Filius is referring to the three of them. All three of them are teachers. Severus is sitting among his colleagues, being a teacher himself.

“Yes, and preparations do tend to be underestimated,” he says sternly.

“Certainly.”

“Especially with potions. In most cases, even the ingredients themselves need to be prepared. Murtlap tentacles, for example, are usable if not properly prepared, I suppose, but if you take the time to massage each tentacle, preferably with a plant-based oil, the essence within becomes much more valuable. The quality of murtlap-”

“My, my,” Filius interrupts him, a hint of teasing in his voice. “A born teacher, aren’t you?”

Severus blinks, and then his cheeks heat up. “I was just explaining the,” but the end of the sentence falters under his breath as Filius’ smile widens. He huffs, and briskly turns his head away. “If you’re not interested, you shouldn’t have asked.”

Filius merely chuckles. “Don’t take it personal, Severus. After teaching for so many years, we just tend to keep the school-related subjects within the school walls.”

Yes, obviously. It’s not as though Poppy had been talking about the Quidditch teams and McGonagall and patching up whatever dimwit had fallen from his broom. Severus crosses his arms over his chest. It would be immature to start an argument about it, though. So, like a grown man, he says nothing more about potions, or himself, or anything at all, and spends the entire night making sure Poppy and Filius know he did, in fact, take it very personally.

It’s midnight by the time Severus is back in his room. His head is ringing, and he feels like tearing his hair out. The aftertaste of butterbeer is foul and sticky in his mouth.

“Ah, Severus, there you are.”

He spins on his heel a little too quickly, nearly losing his balance. There’s no alcohol to blame it on this time. Dumbledore pretends not to notice, and enters the living room as though it were his own. “Have you been out? I was looking for you.”

“Yes,” he hisses. “I had a most wonderful evening in the company of Madame Pomfrey. And Flitwick.”

At the tone of his voice, Dumbledore raises his eyebrows curiously. Severus realises belatedly that Dumbledore will pick their sides. As he always does. Complaints and explanations, no matter how near or far from the truth, never got Severus much sympathy. He defiantly crosses his arms over his chest.

“You seem a little disgruntled,” Dumbledore says mildly. “Would you rather I came back tomorrow? Do keep in mind that tomorrow will be the last chance for us to discuss-”

“No. Lets talk about it now.”

Knowing that he is pushing his luck rarely stops Severus from doing it still. Anyone who dares to be lenient with him is met with his uncurbed urge to push and push and push. Not that he can help himself, at this point. Sooner or later even Dumbledore’s patience will falter.

“Could it be that your evening with Poppy did not go as planned?”

His cheeks flush again. He despises blushing. He despises the fact that he can’t control it. The only thing he despises more than his own body betraying him, is the smallest hint of a smile that tugs at Dumbledore’s mouth.

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

Foolish question. His former friends, if Severus can even refer to them as such, would have merely snickered. Dumbledore is as different from those so-called friends as a human can possibly be, of course. There is something almost soft about his voice when he says, “There is no reason to be ashamed of certain wants or needs. If you and Poppy-”

“I am not interested in Poppy in any such way, because I am not interested in women in any such way.”

There. That shuts Dumbledore up quite well. Severus might have spent the night in horrible company (or rather, spent the night _being_ horrible company), but he certainly won’t have Dumbledore know that he was hoping for something else entirely.

“Is that so?”

Severus watches Dumbledore’s lips as they move around the almost innocent question. There is that look in Albus’ eyes again. The same way he had looked at him a few nights ago. Albus takes a step closer to him and Severus is caught between equal parts of desire and panic.

The kiss is short but insistent. Severus moves automatically, and tries to push him away, but Albus only draws him closer. His hands are hot, burning where they hold Severus. They are firmly planted on his sides, and the more Severus tries to slip out of their grip, the tighter they hold him. Albus leans his head into the crook of Severus’ neck, and the sensation of his breath on his skin makes the hair in his neck stand. When he feels his lips in his neck, kissing and then sucking him, a small, involuntary sound escapes his mouth. As though he had been waiting for the sound, Albus suddenly shoves him against the wall, and kisses him on his mouth again.

It feels good. Fuck, it does. Severus feels heat spreading through his body quickly, the flush in his face creeping down his chest. To be kissed so hard, to be pressed against someone else, chest-to-chest, it feels too good. Albus’ hands are broad and warm. They feel so much better on him than fleeting thoughts and ghosts of memories.

They part again. It’s not as harsh and fast as last time. It’s worse. Severus is entirely too sober for this. For those clear blue eyes looking at him as though they are sorry. And what is he supposed to say to that?

“My apologies, Severus, that was, I shouldn’t have,”

“Shut up.”

Ah, yes, eloquently put, Severus. His voice is a little too soft. Albus merely nods, and takes a step back. Then he hesitates, and draws a breath, words ghosting over his lips, but he turns around again and leaves without saying anything. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He quietly stands behind the door, holding his breath as he listens to Albus’ footsteps. He hears them much longer than they are there. He hears them all night, lying in his bed, staring blankly ahead of him.


End file.
